looking for skyscraper blades
and sharp edged skies.
You think you're red, Red,
when you're really blue;
you think you know it all.
Between the bits of my words
and the spit of my paragraphs.
They all went there,
wrists wrapped in white satin.
I remember red, Red,
not just sunsets:
gashed skies, traffic lights.
We all went along
with a razor and a tune.
We cut our wrists into little bits
and tied them up with grass.
The spring was a pink balloon
and it burst over East River.
But Red's seen it all yesterday night
and he wants more.
The Statue of Liberty kicked up her skirts
and her knickers dropped.
Red's seen it all yesterday night
and he wants more.
Here's a razor, Red, with an edge of glass.
Goodnight. Come back when the grass
grows out of your wrists,
looking for more.

METAPHOR
A sonata of insanity
face carefully folded in white
paper sleeves
blank eyes trailing the ghost of

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16 Renford Road (four)
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